The Dollhouse(72)

“Okay. So it’s a good thing. What’s next for you, then?” He stared over at the fountain, where a man with a guitar sat playing, surrounded by girls wearing blue jeans and tight tops that would have sent Mrs. Eustis into a tailspin.

What if she’d read this all wrong? Sam might be relieved she was out of his hair, and hoping she’d be on her way to Ohio on the next train out.

“Mother will want me to come home so she can torture me for letting her down.”

“And what do you want?”

Darby cocked her head. She’d never been brave enough to seriously consider the question until now.

For seventeen years, she’d done what others wanted. Her mother had been so brittle with rage that Darby hadn’t dared to speak her mind. Mr. Saunders’s presence hadn’t helped the situation, and she’d slowly tucked her real self inside, like a turtle being poked by a stick.

“I owe my mother a lot of money, to pay back the tuition, and I feel very guilty about that.”

He looked down at her. The guitar player strummed something in a minor key and sang about lost love. “That’s not what I asked you, though.”

“Right, but that’s a big part of it, what I should do versus what I would like to do. And Esme is very excited. I saw her in the elevator when I was on my way here. We couldn’t talk for long because Mrs. Eustis got on at the next floor, but Esme said she was working on some scheme, that she had my back.”

“What’s Esme’s scheme involve?”

“She wants me to work at the club and sing with her, try to get some gigs.”

“Typical Esme.”

Darby laughed. “I know, but I like the way she doesn’t let anything or anyone hold her back. I could use more of that myself, I’ve come to realize.”

“For now, leave that all be.” He touched her chin lightly with his index finger. “What do you want?”

Her love of books had stayed the same, no matter if she was a Barbizon guest or a Gibbs girl. “I want to work with words, with writing. I met a girl at the Barbizon who works in publishing, and that sounded like fun.”

“If you want to work with words, I have no doubt you’ll make it happen somehow.”

The simple conviction of his delivery brought tears to her eyes. “So you don’t want me to go back to Ohio?”

“What?” He tossed his coffee cup into a nearby trash can in an easy arc. Darby did the same but missed by a foot.

“Oops.” She picked it up and dropped it in. “I thought you might be tired of me hanging around and wouldn’t want me working at the same place you do.”

He took the scarf from his neck and looped it around Darby’s, pulling her in closer to him and kissing her on the lips. “No. I don’t want you to go back. But the whole point here is that you decide what you want. Do you want to stay?”

“Yes.”

And she did. Her first decision, made on her own, was that New York would be her home. The second was that she’d find Charlotte as soon as she got back from London and charm her way into a job. If she had to work waiting tables in the meantime, that would be fine. And one day she’d repay her mother.

“I think I know what I want,” she said.

Sam didn’t ask her to elaborate, just kissed her again. “And I want to watch you get it.”

“Should be a crazy trip, I must warn you.”

“I like crazy. Do you mind if I come along for the ride?”

She swallowed hard. “I would love that.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE



New York City, 2016


Rose’s father had banged his head and broken a hip trying to walk unassisted, and was on sedatives and painkillers after spending several hours in surgery. The nurses and doctors warned her that the recovery would be difficult. Of that she had little doubt. Her father was a shrunken figure in the hospital bed. Jason had insisted on staying with her and taking her back to the Barbizon. He wanted to cook her dinner. She couldn’t let him see where she was staying, so she conceded that he could make her a quick meal in his apartment. She’d have a bite and go home.

She expected his apartment to be in one of the modern, bland condos that were springing up like Jack’s beanstalk around town, but instead he lived in a floor-through in a Gramercy Park brownstone, one of the poshest and most coveted addresses in the city.

He gave her a small glass of bourbon. “This will help.”

“Do you think he’s in terrible pain?”

“The doctor promised to keep him medicated and the nurse said he’d sleep through the night.” Jason spoke as he stirred a pot of soup on the stove. “You can go back first thing in the morning, but for now you need to eat and get some sleep.”

“My poor dad.” She took a sip from her drink and exhaled as it seared her esophagus. “He used to stroll in the front door after a day at school and call out my name and insist I tell him everything that happened that day. I’d tell him all the silly details of a nine-year-old’s life and he’d listen so carefully, like I was discussing state secrets.”

“Try this.” Jason handed over a bowl and a spoon. She tasted the soup, butternut squash with a hint of cinnamon. And something else.